


John Wakes Up

by rea_p



Category: Sherlock (TV), Undisclosed Fandom
Genre: Gen, Ianto is magic, Tea, can you find the reference to the 90s avengers movie?, decorative arts, life with the Holmes family, possible crack, post-Great Game, teatime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rea_p/pseuds/rea_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A possible epilogue to The Great Game, in which there are unexpected persons, visits with family, and (of course) tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John woke up.

It wasn't just that he regained consciousness - he'd done that a few times since the explosion, in an ambulance, hospital, hospital - those had been vague moments of awareness that he was, for better or worse, apparently still alive. Short moments, before slipping back into a welcoming dark which neither asked nor answered any questions.

This time, he was awake and aware of his surroundings. Enough that, as he lay in the bed staring at the ceiling, he was able to guess at the types of machines in the room from the sound, take stock of his injuries and, from them, get a sense of perhaps just how long he'd been in that calm empty land called unconsciousness.

Experimentally, he turned his head to the left, rolling it on the pillow. Monitoring equipment, and behind them walls painted a robin's egg blue, with a white chair rail. That gave John a moment's pause. Hospitals, in his experience, did not generally have chair rails or other such decorative features; those were usually in old homes, or new homes trying to look old.

A slight noise, movement of fabric, brought John's attention over a little. There was a man in a chair, watching him. He had a book on his lap, open, but he was watching John, and when their eyes met, the corner of his mouth twitched in the slightest suggestion of a smile.

It reminded John of Sherlock, which caused a moment of worry but also encouraged him to look more closely at the young man. There were, after all, two Holmes brothers - who was to say there weren't more. Short brown hair, pale skin - but not pale enough. Immaculately dressed in a three piece pinstripe suit of charcoal gray and a blue tie. His brain was foggy, but he didn't think the man in the chair was a Holmes.

His suspicion was confirmed when the other spoke. "Welcome back, Doctor Watson," he said, with what was most definitely a Welsh accent. Decidedly not a Holmes. At least, not a brother.

John opened his mouth to speak, but what came out was a rasping sound. Right, he'd clearly been out for a while, possibly intubated at one point, which at any rate meant his mouth was dry. The man in the suit was somehow instantly at his side, holding a cup of water with a straw. Familiar with the concept from both sides of the straw, John moved forward a little and took a sip of water.

As he did so, the young man caught his eye. And proceeded to answer the questions to which John had not yet given voice. "Five days, seven hours, give or take a few minutes, since the incident. You successfully maneuvered both yourself and Sherlock into the pool - well done, sir - and as you were closer to the surface suffered more from the incoming debris." John raised an eyebrow and the man nodded. "Sherlock suffered primarily from inhalation of water and a milder concussion, and has been conscious for the past two days." The man did not look exactly thrilled by this last fact.

John, having by this point drunk enough water to feel slightly less like he had the Afghan desert in his mouth (again), interrupted. "Where am I, and who are you?"

"Ravensworth House, Essex, the residence of Victoria Holmes. I believe Sherlock and Mycroft still refer to her as 'Mummy'." His lips twitched in a near smile, although his tone remained even. "I'm her Secretary, Ianto Jones."

\- -

Ianto was clearly a Secretary of the same style as the woman called Anthea, which is to say much more than someone who made appointments. He remained in the room while a nurse came and checked John over. Once all three men were satisfied that John's vitals were stable and he was in no danger of falling unconscious again, Ianto resumed his seat in the elegant chair, now scooted slightly closer to the bed. Slowly, pausing occasionally to sip divine-smelling coffee from a china cup, or to help John with another drink through the straw, he explained what had happened.

The explosion had brought the police - and Mycroft - who had dug John, Sherlock, some of the snipers, and Moriarty out of the rubble. From what Ianto didn't say, John knew that not all the snipers had survived. He didn't particularly care. The snipers and their employer had remained at the hospital to which they had all been taken, and were now under constant guard from both the police and "other personnel." Big brother was, quite literally, watching them.

John and Sherlock had been whisked out of the hospital and into Ravensworth as soon as it had been possible. This had been a matter both of their being stable enough to move and Ravensworth being fitted out with the latest and best home hospital equipment. Or, as Ianto put it in his bland, even voice, "It was necessary to ensure as smooth a transition as possible, which required refurnishing the rooms. Twice."

John coughed a chuckle at that, and Ianto looked up and caught his eye. Really as bad as that? asked John's amused grin, to which Ianto's sardonic eyebrow replied You think you have it bad?

It could have been the start of a particularly amusing conversation, but a buzzing in Ianto's waistcoat pocket interrupted them before they began. "I must apologize," he said, scanning the message on his mobile, "but duty calls. Get some rest. If you're up for it, Victoria would like you to join her for tea."

John weighed his response for a moment, as Ianto gathered his book and coffee. He couldn't decide if meeting the woman who was mother to Mycroft and Sherlock would be illuminating or just plain frightening. "Delighted," he said, thinking he could always beg off at the last moment if he had to.


	2. Chapter 2

Begging off was not, as it turned out, an option.

Shortly after Ianto left, a doctor had come in to check John over. She had given him a full run down of his condition and status. They had agreed that the slight vertigo and nausea he was experiencing was due to the effects of cumulative concussions rather than a more serious issue, and she had rather dryly advised him to try to avoid head trauma in the future, or situations in which such trauma might occur. Neither of them honestly thought that was very likely, assuming continued exposure to Sherlock, but he smiled and she pretended everything would be fine.

After a conversation about treatment and rehabilitation options - which had to be constantly rescued from topics such as medicine in the field, theories on the treatment of traumatic brain injury in veterans, the annoyances of doctors as patients, and their respective medical schools, training, and experiences - John was cleared for social interaction.

Which was how he found himself, a few hours later, seated in a remarkably comfortable antique armchair in a room which looked as though it had been it furnished out of the collection of the V&A museum. It was clearly meant as a sitting room, although considerably more upscale than any in which John had ever found himself. He began reviewing any possible reference Sherlock had ever made to his childhood - these were few and far between.

The door opened, and Ianto appeared pushing a tea trolley which suited the rest of the room perfectly, laden with truly divine looking pastries and sandwiches. Ianto parked the trolley near John’s chair, just out of reach. “I’ll move it in a moment,” he said, and carefully shifted a round tea table to a point between John and an empty, elegant chair. As he edged the trolley closer, he said “You can help yourself, Victoria will be along any moment. I’d avoid the macaroons, however - they’re her favourite.”

“Thanks,” John replied, and reached out for what looked like a miniature sausage roll. The movement, leaning forward, made him slightly dizzy, and he was grateful when Ianto picked up the small platter of savories and moved it within arm’s distance so that John could take two and put them on the plate which had somehow appeared on the table in front on him.

The door opened, and a white-haired woman came in carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and saucers. Ianto straightened, John looked up, and Victoria said “Thank you, Ianto, we’ll manage.” Summarily dismissed, the secretary disappeared somewhere out of John’s range of vision and apparently out of the room entirely.

John watched Victoria as she brought over the tea, set it down, sat in the elegant chair, and began to pour. If he had to guess, he’d say she was in her mid-sixties. In-shape, healthy, elegantly dressed, and quite honestly stunning. She looked up from the teapot and caught his gaze; her eyes held the same intense intelligence as her sons’ and were just as disconcerting.

The she smiled in a way the reached her eyes, making her seem very human and somehow safe. Or safer, anyway, since that was a relative term with a Holmes.

“Dr. Foley says she’s quite pleased with the state of your health,” Victoria said, without preamble, followed closely by “Sugar?”

“Yes, thanks. No cream,” John replied automatically. “Um.” He wasn’t sure what to say next.

Another smile, and she handed him a teacup. “I had been hoping to meet you before now, but never got the chance. You and Sherlock are always so busy, and of course I have my own interests.” There was a gleam in her eye when she said that which made John think her two apples had not fallen very far from the tree at all. He still had no idea what to say, so he made a polite noise and sipped his tea. Perfect. Heavenly. You could live on tea like this.

“Good, isn’t it?” He nodded, and she added “It’s my special blend. I can’t make coffee - thank god for Ianto, he makes a wonderful cappucino - but tea I can manage.”

“More than manage,” John replied, in a tone which conveyed his adoration of the tea. They exchanged, for the first time, genuine smiles.

The next few minutes were taken up with conversation about tea, coffee, and food in general. In addition to being gorgeous and brilliant, Victoria was perfectly able to carry on a conversation, putting the other person at ease. A small part of John’s mind wondered just how much of this was an act, like Sherlock crying over the death of whatisname with Janus cars, but mostly he was just relieved that Mummy was not, in fact, terrifying.

They came to agreement about the proper way to make mashed potatoes, or rather agreed to disagree about the ratio of milk to butter, and Victoria paused to eat a macaroon. “It is lovely to have someone new to discuss recipes with,” she said, “Mycroft is always on some sort of diet these days, and the only time Sherlock was ever interested in food was that brief period when he dabbled in molecular gastronomy.”

John took a moment to contemplate the image of Sherlock in a kitchen dealing with food rather than body parts, and the shrugged slightly. “I’m not much of a cook, to be honest. I read recipes, and I’ve watched Jamie Oliver on the telly, but I don’t get much chance-”

“Does my son still use the refrigerator as storage for his various experiments?” Victoria interrupted crisply.

John nodded. “There was a head in ours, a while back. Next to the yoghurt.” She tsked; John continued “We’ve reached an agreement. All samples and specimen on the lower shelves, where they can’t contaminate the foodstuffs, and nothing with any possible airborne pathogens at all.”

Victoria laughed out loud. “Quite the clever solution. Not quite as good as a second unit, but I suppose your landlady might have to be involved in something like that, and from what Mycroft says there’s no room in the flat for a second.” John made a non-committal noise and picked up a few chocolate biscuits, dropping all but one onto his plate. They were, of course, delicious. “Although it might be worth asking,” she added, thoughtfully, “considering that one time when he managed to give half his building e. coli. He was in a bedsit, you know, shared kitchen.”

John choked on his biscuit. He coughed, turning red, while Victoria looked concerned and poured him more tea. “All right?” she asked when he’d stopped huffing and coughing. He nodded, taking the tea.

He was about to speak when the door flew open and there was Sherlock, glowering, his left forearm set in a neon orange cast.


	3. Chapter 3

For a brief moment Sherlock stood there in the doorway, back-lit and dramatic as ever, despite the absurd colour of his cast. 

Then Victoria said “Yes, dear, was there something you wanted?” in the same mild tone most mothers use with their toddlers or teenagers, and the spell was broken.

Sherlock huffed, his shoulders slumped just a fraction, and he strode towards them. “He’s escaped. From hospital.”

Clarification was unnecessary - “he” could only be Moriarty. John started to gather himself, to push out of the chair, but was stopped when Victoria looked immediately past Sherlock and said, businesslike, “Ianto?”

The Welshman might have been behind Sherlock the entire time, or he might have simply materialised at the sound of his name. Either seemed possible from the way he was just suddenly there in the door, bluetooth headset in his ear and smartphone in hand. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Confirmation just came through.”

Victoria nodded, and paused. The look in her eyes and the set of her mouth brought to mind some Special Forces John had encountered in Afghanistan, the way they’d looked when assessing intelligence. “Protocol Seven, I think, for now. Tell Gerard not to go to Eight without permission, I want to check something first.” Ianto nodded, tapping away at his smartphone. “Oh, and we’ll be at least six for dinner, possibly seven.” 

Sherlock groaned a little, earning a sharp look from his mother. “You can’t expect him to stay away, under the circumstances. He is your brother and I expect you both to behave. Besides, I expect he’ll bring your policeman with him, which ought to please you.”

John, correctly inferring that there was no need for him to move, let himself sink back into his chair a bit. The adrenaline rush which had begun when Sherlock appeared was starting to wear off, and he was honestly glad they weren’t about to go rushing back to London.

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, hovering by the chair next to John’s. 

Victoria waved a hand, dismissing the comment and simultaneously commanding her son to sit. “Do sit, Sherlock. You might as well join us, now that you’ve interrupted.” He did, and Ianto disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock looked from his mother to John to the table, smiled ever so slightly, and took a macaroon. Victoria frowned, but her eyes were amused.

John couldn’t help but think this was probably a typical teatime with the Holmeses.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the direct result of a fic by seren_ccd in which Victoria from Red is Sherlock and Mycroft's mum. That fact, or some version of it, instantly became headcannon and then I thought "Well, Sherlock has John, and Mycroft has Anthea, so who does Victoria have?" and the answer was "Ianto". These are, however, AU versions of Victoria and Ianto, just for the record.


End file.
